Tess Gerritsen - Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

Troubled, Hugh regarded his nephew for a moment. “You’ll have no authority to back you up on this. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“If anything goes wrong-”

“The navy will deny my existence. I know that, too.”

Hugh shook his head, agonizing over the decision. “Jordan, you’re my only nephew…”

“And with a bloodline like ours, we can’t possibly fail. Can we?” Smiling, Jordan gave his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze of confidence.

Hugh sighed. “This woman must be quite extraordinary.”

“I’ll introduce you,” said Jordan, and his gaze shifted back to the water. “As soon as I get her off that bloody ship.”

The men’s voices moved on and faded down the corridor.

Clea remained frozen by the door, debating whether to risk leaving the storage area. Before they docked again, she’d have to find a new hiding place. Eventually someone would check the cargo, and when that happened, the last place Clea wanted to be was trapped in a crate.

The coast looked clear.

She slipped out of the storeroom and headed in the opposite direction the men had taken. The below-decks area was a confusing maze of corridors and hatches. Which way next?

The question was settled by the sound of footsteps. In panic, she ducked through the nearest door.

To her dismay she discovered she was in the crew’s quarters-and the footsteps were moving closer. She scrambled across to the row of lockers, opened a door and squeezed inside.

It was even a tighter fit than the crate had been. She was crammed against a bundle of foul-smelling shirts and an even fouler pair of tennis shoes. Through the ventilation slits she saw two men step into the room. One of them crossed toward the lockers. Clea almost let out a squeak of relief when he swung open the door right beside hers.

“Hear there’s rough weather comin’ up,” the man said, pulling on a slicker.

“Hell, she’s blowin’ twenty-five knots already.”

The men, now garbed in foul-weather gear, left the quarters.

Clea emerged from the locker. She couldn’t keep ducking in and out of rooms; she’d have to find a more permanent hiding place. Some spot she’d be left undisturbed…

The lifeboats. She’d seen it used as a hiding place in the movies. Unless there was a ship’s emergency, she’d be safe waiting it out there until they docked.

She scavenged among the lockers and pulled out a sailor’s pea coat and a black cap. Then, her head covered, her petite frame almost swallowed up in the coat, she crept out of the crew’s quarters and started up a stairway to the deck.

It was blowing outside, the night swirling with wind and spray. Through the darkness she could make out several men moving about on deck. Two were securing a cargo hatch, a third was peering through binoculars over the port rail. None of them glanced in her direction.

She spotted two lifeboats secured near the starboard gunwale. Both were covered with tarps. Not only would she be concealed in there, she’d be dry. Once the Villafjord reached Naples, she could sneak ashore.

She pulled the pea coat tighter around her shoulders. Calmly, deliberately, she began to stroll toward the lifeboats.

Simon Trott stood on the bridge and eyed the increasingly foul weather from behind the viewing windows. Though the captain had assured him the passage would present no difficulties for the Villafjord, Trott still couldn’t shake off his growing sense of uneasiness.

Obviously, Victor Van Weldon didn’t share Trott’s sense of foreboding. The old man sat calmly beside him on the bridge, oxygen hissing softly through his nasal tube. Van Weldon would not be anxious about something so trivial as a storm at sea. At his age, with his failing health, what was there left for him to fear?

Trott asked the captain, “Will it get much rougher?”

“Not by much, I expect,” said the captain. “She’ll handle it fine. But if you’re that concerned, we can turn back to Portsmouth.”

“No,” spoke up Van Weldon. “We cannot return.” Suddenly he began to cough. Everyone on the bridge looked away in distaste as the old man spat into a handkerchief.

Trott, too, averted his gaze and focused on the main deck below, where three men were working hunched against the wind. That’s when Trott noticed the fourth figure moving along the starboard gunwale. It passed, briefly, under the glow of a decklight, then slipped into the shadows.

At the first lifeboat the figure paused, glanced around and began to untie the covering tarp.

“Who is that?” Trott asked sharply. “That man by the lifeboat?”

The captain frowned. “I don’t recognize that one.”

At once Trott turned for the exit.

“Mr. Trott?” called the captain.

“I’ll take care of this.”

By the time Trott reached the deck, he had his automatic drawn and ready. The figure had vanished. Draped free over the lifeboat was an unfastened corner of tarp. Trott prowled closer. With a jerk he yanked off the tarp and pointed his gun at the shadow cowering inside.

“Out!” snapped Trott. “Come on, out. ”

Slowly the figure unfolded itself and raised its head. By the glow of a decklight Trott saw the terror in that startlingly familiar face.

“If it isn’t the elusive Miss Clea Rice,” said Trott.

And he smiled.

The cabin was large, plushly furnished and equipped with all the luxuries one would expect in a well-appointed living room. Only the swaying of the crystal chandelier overhead betrayed the fact it was a shipboard residence.

The chair Clea was tied to was upholstered in green velvet and the armrests were carved mahogany. Surely they won’t kill me here, she thought. They wouldn’t want me to bleed all over this pricey antique.

Trott emptied the contents of her pockets and her knapsack onto a table and eyed the collection of lock picks. “I see you came well prepared,” he commented dryly. “How did you get on board?”

“Trade secret.”

“Are you alone?”

“You think I’d tell you?”

With two swift steps he crossed to her and slapped her across the face, so hard her head snapped back. For a moment she was too stunned by the force of the blow to speak.

“Surely, Miss Rice,” wheezed Victor Van Weldon, “you don’t wish to anger Mr. Trott more than you already have. He can be most unpleasant when annoyed.”

“So I’ve noticed,” groaned Clea. She squinted, focusing her blurred gaze on Van Weldon. He was frailer than she’d expected. And old, so old. Oxygen tubing snaked from his nostrils to a green tank hooked behind his wheelchair. His hands were bruised, the skin thin as paper. This was a man barely clinging to life. What could he possibly lose by killing her?

“I’ll ask you again,” said Trott. “Are you alone?”

“I brought a team of navy SEALs with me.”

Trott hit her again. A thousand shards of light seemed to explode in her head.

“Where is Jordan Tavistock?” asked Trott.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he with you?”

“No.”

Trott picked up Jordan’s gold pocket watch and flipped open the lid. He read aloud the inscription. “Bernard Tavistock.” He looked at her. “You have no idea where he is?”

“I told you I don’t.”

He held up the watch. “Then what are you doing with this?”

“I stole it.”

Though she steeled herself for the coming blow, the impact of his fist still took her breath away. Blood trickled down her chin. In dazed wonder she watched the red droplets soak into the lush carpet at her feet. How ironic, she thought. I finally tell the truth and he doesn’t believe me.

“He is still working with you, isn’t he?” said Trott.